


Will you still love me?

by poedaaaayumeron



Series: Forget Me Not [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Anal Sex, Angst, Battle of Azanulbizar - mentioned, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild descriptions of violence, Tender Lovemaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:56:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poedaaaayumeron/pseuds/poedaaaayumeron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“You must speak with him.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was something Thorin heard almost every day, sometimes twice. The nagging that was voiced in earnest agreement in his own mind. The near-constant harping that had him wincing and curling further inward, despite its intent.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will you still love me?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_northstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_northstar/gifts).



> Based on a prompt given to me by the lovely and wonderful Ladynorthstar.
> 
> Pardon any mistakes. This fic is three days overdue and I just really wanted to get it out. Bwuh. <3

_“You must speak with him.”_

It was something Thorin heard almost every day, sometimes twice. The nagging that was voiced in earnest agreement in his own mind. The near-constant harping that had him wincing and curling further inward, despite its intent.

He knew Dís did not think little of him for his avoidance, the active choice to keep away from the one dwarf who had ever brought true light into his life. She understood, though she hadn’t been so withdrawn after such loss and heartbreak. Dís had had the stability of her husband, who hadn’t joined the army, to comfort her properly after Azanulbizar. The news of her brother and grandfather’s deaths, as well as the disappearance of her father had struck her deep, and the princess had cried for a great many weeks without pause. But her husband had been whole of mind, untouched by the horrors of war and still full of the innocent hopefulness that had been what Dís had fallen in love with.

When Thorin returned from the battle, he was a shattered dwarf. Haunted with the gruesome images he’d hoped to leave behind, the now-king was thrown into a world of rule and responsibility. There wasn’t a night he didn’t wake up shouting from nightmares, sobbing from the loss. Every time he had shut his eyes, he would see the severed head of Thror dangling from the Pale Orc’s clenched fist. In his nightmares, he was forced to watch his brother, his perfect, golden Frerin, fall beneath a group of Orcs and torn apart over and over and over again.

For several years he was only able to get out of his bed with the aid of Dís coming in to coax him out. Thorin only ate if food was placed in front of him, and only just barely had the presence of mind to bathe himself daily. When his attendance was not required in the court, which Dís had made sure rarely happened, Thorin would stay in his bed, caught in the place between waking and slumber, where he could feel the nightmares and darkness but not see them.

He had tried, upon first returning to Ered Luin, to be with Dwalin. They both had, but leaving the battlefield behind had been impossible for both of them. The two of them had come back changed dwarves with their own personal demons. After one too many nights of waking up and almost murdering the dwarf shivering under the duvet with him, Thorin had had enough. Between their grief and mourning, they didn’t have room for the other. Dwalin had left with a parting kiss, eyes hard but features soft as he whispered a soft endearment.

_“I’ll be there when you’re ready, âzyungâl.”_

Of course, the warrior had a much different way with coping with the loss of that day. He left Ered Luin for months at a time, guarding caravans and convoys, fending off Orc raids and bandits and highwaymen. Dwalin had even gone away for a few years, presumably to the Iron Hills when it was clear the Thorin was not healing as quickly. It had been torture for the warrior to stay, waiting for the heavy clouds to lift from Thorin, for the king to curl in on himself and allow only his sister near him. Dwalin did not hate him for it, could not, and that only depressed Thorin further.

Then Dís was with child. Thorin at first was distant, but his interest grew and his pain receded with each passing day. He found himself pulling himself out of bed each day and bathing and dressing on his own, seeking out his sister before breakfast to check on her. He spent many hours in the evenings in the sitting room with Dís, his hands resting on her swollen belly while she read, or embroidered, or dozed. The first time he felt the child move was the first time he’d truly smiled in years.

That was the moment Dís began to talk of rekindling friendships, that it was time to put the past behind them and move on. Thorin still didn’t feel ready.

He wasn’t home when Fíli was born, wasn’t even in the city. It was one of the first scouting trips he’d joined since becoming king, and he’d been gone a week. The baby wasn’t due for another fortnight, so Thorin had thought he had plenty of time to leave and return. Of course, when he’d learned of the birth of his first nephew when he first stepped foot in the city, he had run full-tilt home, propriety be damned. From the first moment he saw the babe, Dís and her husband wouldn’t have been able to get rid of Thorin if they had tried.

He was constantly there to help, barely leaving their sides to see to his responsibilities as king. The child was beautiful and perfect, with a tuft of blonde hair and blue eyes that brightened further each day. The king was smiling more, and even began to laugh as Fíli started walking and babbling nonsensical words. His nightmares lessened, and Dís began to comment on Thorin’s returning weight and muscle.

It was when Dís was heavy with a second child that Dwalin returned to Ered Luin.

It had been a decade since Thorin had even seen is One, and even longer still since they had an intimate moment, the last one only being a strained kiss. The gaping maw of that lost time had him avoiding the warrior.

Dís was not pleased in the least. “You _must_ speak with him,” she insisted. The dwarrowdam had a shrieking toddler hoisted on her hip, the little blond monster covered in his supper and fighting his mother as she intended to haul him off to the bath. A distant part of Thorin was horrified by the mess and that Dís wasn’t bothered by the gravy that smeared across her dress. “He won’t wait here forever, and he might not come back next time.”

Thorin flinched, knowing her words to be true, but didn’t comment. The sound of his teeth grinding had even Fíli pausing in his protests to look at his uncle with tear-filled eyes.

“Take Fíli,” Dís said firmly, handing the filthy dwarf to him and greasy, dirty little hands instantly latched onto his braids. “I can’t be bending over the tub as much anymore.” It was a blatant lie, and Dís was only growing impatient with Thorin’s cowardice for the evening. The king agreed to bathe the child, knowing his sister needed the help, and despite being revolted by the mess, he cherished the little blond. The bath was amusing and did wonders for his mood as the bubbly child grinned and mumbled to him.

When he and Fíli had finished (Thorin having wiped his braids clean of any food the dwarf had put there earlier), Thorin stepped out into the hall and called for Dís. Her reply came for the sitting room and he quickly padded that direction, calmly cooing at the blond in his arms. The first thing he noticed when he entered the sitting room was the heaviness in the air, as if it were filled to the brim and wrought with tension. It had Thorin’s gut clenching and he looked away from Fíli to take in the surroundings. Dís was standing next to him, close to the doorway, and was plucking Fíli from his grasp. Turning his gaze away from her, he found another occupant, and at first he didn’t recognize the dwarf that sat stiffly in one of the chairs at the hearth. He was great and broad, muscle-bound and bald on the crown of his head. The shiny scalp was tattooed, and for several moments Thorin was distracted by the shapes of them. Finally he actually _looked_ and the dwarf and sucked in a breath through his nose, nostrils flaring as recognition dawned on him and the urge to flee overcame him.

“I will leave you two alone then,” Dís said, and before the king realized it she was slipping out of the room and slamming the door shut behind her. Absently, he registered the sound of the bolt sliding into place and he was alone with Dwalin.

“It’s been a long time,” Thorin started lamely, just barely resisting the urge to fidget as the older dwarf’s grey eyes bore across the room at him.

“Aye,” came the simple response, and the king inwardly flinched. There was no judgment, no anger in that small utterance but it still sent guilt zinging through him. “You’re starting to go silver.”

Thorin knew the dwarf was pointing out the burst of gray hairs that had begun to grow out at his hairline in the past few years. At them being pointed out by his lover—former lover, he actually lifted a hand to brush his hair back. “Yes, well…”

“It suits you,” Dwalin said, warmth filling his gaze as he watched the squirming king. “Very regal.”

Thorin cleared his throat and looked down and away, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t blushing, but his cheeks were far too warm to not be. There was the urge to cross the room and drop into the chair against the warrior and soak in that heat he’d deprived himself of for over two decades. Shame filled him over how he had treated his One, had ignored and avoided him, wallowed in his mourning. The apology was lodged in his throat when he looked back at Dwalin, and he narrowed his eyes slightly in frustration.

“Your hair, the tattoos,” Thorin began, gesturing awkwardly at the warrior. “It looks good. Suits you.”

Dwalin only graced him with a smile and didn’t comment, leaving the king to flounder where he stood by the door. He began weighing the worth of turning and fleeing the room, but he had knew the door was bolted. The older dwarf clapped his hands together suddenly, and the sound startled the king as the sharp crack shattered the silence that had fallen.

“Well, if we’re making small talk, how have you been?” the warrior asked, and Thorin heard the deeper meaning to the question.

“I am well.”

The underlying, true question hung in the air between them, as well as Thorin’s reply.  Part of him recognized that this would be the moment to apologize, to beg his One’s forgiveness and plead that he stayed. The king wasn’t sure he’d survive watching Dwalin walk out that door again now that he saw the warrior once again, yet his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Throat clogged with a stone of thick emotion, he opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. A sense of urgency overcame Thorin as he struggled for the words he needed, a hand rising again to shove his hair back from his face.

To further add to his frustration, Dwalin was smiling and stood up. He wasn’t wearing his knuckle dusters, the tattoos across the backs of his hands and around his wrists drawing Thorin’s eye.

“Are you ready, _âzyungâl_?” the warrior asked, as if to clarify his first question, as if Thorin could possibly misunderstand.

“Mahal, yes.”

Dwalin was across the small room and the king was wrapped into those thick, powerful arms, a hot mouth pressed insistently against his with a desperation they both shared. For all the passion, it was still chaste, Thorin’s arms around his One’s shoulders while the warrior circled his waist and pulled them flush together. The king released a shaky sound as he opened himself up for his lover’s questing tongue, the breathy noise swallowed by the warrior before it could be properly heard. Somehow, he was pulled even closer to Dwalin, his ribs creaking with the tightness of the embrace and his teeth aching from the kiss that grew harder and more violent with the decades long separation they’d put each other through.

“Need you,” Dwalin growled against the king’s lips..

“Need you, as well,” Thorin whispered feverishly, fingers twisting into the hair that fell down around the warrior’s shoulders and pulling the rough strands. Frustration and guilt tugged his brow together, his expression pinched. “You aren’t angry with me?”

“I’m bloody furious, but that’s a talk that can wait,” the older dwarf rumbled out, letting out a huff of pleasure when Thorin rocked forward against him. “Waited so long, _âzyungâl_ , won’t wait another second.”

“I’m sorr—”

“Shut up,” Dwalin snarled and their mouths crashed together as the warrior began tugging Thorin for the few feet it took to get to the center of the room.

He felt fur beneath his feet, and he knew they were standing on the Warg skin rug that was laid out in front of the hearth. The warmth from the fire and the heat of his lover against him had Thorin’s body beading with sweat, his brow slick with perspiration and his light tunic sticking to his torso. The warrior’s hands slid back until they were bunching the fabric of his shirt at the younger dwarf’s waist, lingering there as he plundered the king’s mouth with his thick tongue before lifting the material up over his head. Thorin couldn’t help the sigh of relief at the partial nudity, his fingers already yanking at the buckle of the warrior’s belt and tossing the thick strap of leather aside before attacking the lacings of his shirt and trousers. They were single-minded in their purpose, heedless of their surroundings and the inappropriateness of their choice in rooms for this, but as Dwalin had already communicated they were unable to wait even the  half a minute it would take to hurry down the hall to Thorin’s bedroom.

Finally they were both in naught but their skin, pressed against one another as hands roamed and lips pressed hungrily and harshly before Dwalin pulled back a bit to catch his breath. “Lie down, my king,” he growled, the deepness of his voice sending shivers down Thorin’s spine and he was immediately obeying the command. He spread himself out across the fur, naked and breathless from their passionate kisses, and stared up at his One through his lashes, propping himself up on his elbows while he waited for the warrior to join him on the floor. Dwalin dropped to his knees and covered the king’s naked body with his, their mouths meeting once more and dancing together.

Thorin pulled back, gasping for air as he opened his eyes. “We need—I don’t—” he began, but Dwalin silenced him with another press of lips.

“Don’t you worry, my king,” he growled before lifting up and reaching over to the armchair to yank a heavy pack over to them. He was rooting around in it blindly as he pressed tender, feather-light kisses to Thorin’s cheeks and forehead.

After several moments, Thorin finally registered what the warrior was messing with and furrowed his brow. “Why are you packed?”

“Was leaving, spending the night in Dale before going,” the larger dwarf replied, tensing slightly above the king.

“Oh,” Thorin began, a red-hot spike of anguish sinking into his gut. “You’re leaving.”

“ _Was_ , kitten,” the warrior insisted, sealing his mouth over the curve of Thorin’s throat. “Not anymore. If you’ll have me, I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Fingers tangling in the hair around Dwalin’s shoulders, Thorin dragged the dwarf up for a scorching kiss, a low whine leaving him as he desperately nodded. The warrior let out a triumphant sound and the pungent scent of leather oil pierced the air. It was far from ideal, but they needed this, they needed each other, and the door was locked the last Thorin knew. This would be enough, and as Dwalin’s first fat finger began to breach him, Thorin couldn’t find the space to complain.

It _burned_ , the stretch just around a single digit after so long leaving Thorin breathless and flinching. Dwalin groaned and began pumping in and out, circling his slick finger in Thorin’s entrance before pulling out and returning with two. At this, the king actually whined, eyes screwed shut as pain lanced through him but the warrior pressed on. He was scissoring his fingers, spreading them in Thorin’s core and crooking them so they applied just enough pressure _there_ to have the younger dwarf whimpering and thrusting down onto those questing fingers. Their mouths found each other again, tongues pressing forward and dueling as Dwalin fucked Thorin with two, now three digits. By then the king was shivering and his breath gusted across his lover’s face, the breeze of it shifting the hair of Dwalin’s beard and he spread his legs even wider for his lover.

“Please, Dwalin,” he breathed, the sound airy and embarrassingly high.

Without a word or even a sound, Dwalin was withdrawing his fingers and grabbing the small flask of oil. Upending it in his palm, he poured the rest of it out and slathered his thick cock with it all, slicking the length while bending down low to mouth at Thorin’s bearded jaw.

Thorin gasped and shuddered at the gentle, blunt pressure that pressed at his entrance, his legs coiling tightly around Dwalin’s torso and hands rising to grip the warrior’s broad shoulders. Opening his eyes, they connected with his One’s and he slowly nodded, swallowing thickly before Dwalin began pressing inward.

“ _O-oh_ ,” Thorin whimpered as he was slowly split open, skewered on the thick rod of his lover and stretched so wide that he was almost skeptical that the warrior had ever fit inside him. All manner of humiliating, pained sounds spilled from the king’s lips as he was filled mercilessly by his One. It wasn’t how Dwalin usually was, as the warrior used to over prepare him to the point that he hardly felt the additional stretch of his prick inside him. Thorin preferred this, though, desperate as he was to feel it when it was long over, have the delicious ache in his tailbone every time he moved and the perfect tenderness. He wanted the pain, the punishment, the greedy love that Dwalin still had for him.

When the warrior pressed flush against his arse, Thorin bit his lip savagely, releasing a high keening as he rocked helplessly down onto Dwalin’s cock. Suddenly his chin was gripped and his head shaken until he released his lip, only to be pulled into yet another deep, searching kiss. It was wet and entirely sloppy, their mouths not even sealing as they moved together. Dwalin started a terribly slow pace, dragging back out just to push in with agonizing slowness that had Thorin groaning in frustration. He could feel the warrior smirk, but he did not quicken his movements, the slow rolling rhythm of the thrusts sending shivers up the king’s spine.

“ _Dwalin_ ,” he growled, coiling his legs tighter around his lover’s waist. “Dwalin, _please_ —!”

“What, your majesty?” he asked calmly, though his rumbling voice broke on the last syllable when Thorin clenched hard around the length of his cock.

“ _More_ ,” was all Thorin could gasp out, eyes rolling back as the next slide out of him had the head of his One’s prick rubbing against his prostate.

“Of course,” the warrior growled out, and his thrusts sped up, the gentle slap of flesh filling the quiet room, the sound mingling with the crackling of the fire in the hearth. The heat of the fire warmed Thorin’s flesh, causing more sweat to bead across his body as he was pressed into the fur rug by his lover. The warrior’s hard frame was a furnace on top of him, heating him and chasing out the cold that had filled Thorin over the long decades without him. As the king let out a shuddering moan, Dwalin latched his teeth onto the curve of his neck and sucked harshly at the pulse.

Thorin shivered and moaned, wrapping one arm tightly around his lover’s shoulders as he reached up to hold the back of Dwalin’s head, fingernails biting into the tattooed scalp. He missed the thick line of hair that had cut down the center of the warrior’s head, the coarseness having been a comfort, a way to ground himself as the huge dwarf wound him up tighter and tighter. The taut expanse of Dwalin’s furred abdomen dragged against his engorged length, the precum leaking from his tip dewing across Dwalin’s stomach and the hair that was there. Already the coil of his release was pulled tight in his gut, only just a few hard thrusts away and Thorin was shaking his head.

“’M close,” he mumbled, gnashing his teeth as Dwalin pressed harder against him, the steady pumps into him growing brutal and erratic. He couldn’t help the near scream when the mighty dwarf’s wide palm squeezed between them to stroke Thorin’s cock, the rough callouses sending jagged jolts of pleasure racing through the king’s body. “ _O-oh gods_ , won’t last—!”

“Don’t expect you to,” Dwalin growled, and Thorin felt more than saw the way the warrior tensed above him. “Come for me, Thorin. Just for me.”

There was a broken, shuddery sound that spilled from Thorin’s throat and he was spitting pearls between their abdomens, painting their flesh with his passion and clamping down on his lover’s cock. The girth still pounding into his tight entrance made everything intense, stars bursting behind his eyes as they screwed shut against the onslaught of pure, fiery pleasure shot through him. Quickly it became jagged and nearly painful as Dwalin continued the merciless pumping into his core, but the king clung to Dwalin and begged quietly for more, more, _more_.

With a ragged groan, Dwalin thrust forward hard enough to shift Thorin across the rug and froze, his length pulsing in the king’s core and splashing liquid heat against his inner walls. They laid there for what felt like hours, entangled and connected until their breathing evened out and the warrior softened and slipped free from Thorin’s body.

Grunting, Dwalin grabbed the thick woven blanket off of the armchair and threw it over both of their cooling bodies. As he moved to settle in beside the king, he captured Thorin’s lips in a slow dance, sighing into the pliant heat of the younger dwarf’s mouth.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Thorin whispered, eyes stinging with decades of held-back tears.

“I shouldn’t’ve left you, _âzyungâl_ ,” the warrior replied softly, and the weight of guilt and thick emotion in his tone was like a knife in Thorin’s gut. “You still needed me, even if we couldn’t be _this_.”

Thorin choked and shook his head, hands carding through Dwalin’s thick hair. “Can we…can we talk about this in the morning?” he whispered, feeling selfish and cowardly, but not wanting to spoil this temporary peace that had fallen across them. Certainly, the morning would be full of awkward silences punctuated by loud outbursts, both as arguments and passion. It had been that way for them even before the battle, and Thorin suspected that wouldn’t have changed in the years since. They were both too stubbornly volatile to be any different.

“Of course, kitten,” Dwalin murmured, brushing knots out of the king’s sweaty hair with his fingers, pressing a slow, undemanding kiss to Thorin’s lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sighing happily, Thorin strained up to press more firmly against Dwalin’s mouth before dropping back down and smiling slightly up at the warrior. The older dwarf smiled back and settled right down next to the king and pulled him close until they were spooning on the fur rug, facing the fire in the hearth. For the first time in over two decades, Thorin slept soundly.

**FIN**


End file.
